What does the world look like in 50 years?

A wide 16:9 oil painting, seen from the shaded second-floor landing of an old coastal apartment building. The street below has become a permanent canal. Green-brown water reaches halfway up the abandoned ground-floor windows; beneath its surface, a faded pedestrian crossing remains visible. Across the middle of the picture, a broad communal walkway has been bolted onto the buildings, its concrete, timber, and steel visibly repaired at different times. In the foreground, an older woman and a teenage boy kneel beside a dismantled water pump. Her dark, weathered hands hold the heavy casing steady while his hands fit a new seal. Their tools lie directly on the concrete. A disconnected pipe leads upward to a large drinking-water tank. Behind them, people wait with ordinary mismatched containers, leaving the workers room. Overhead, closely fitted solar panels form a low canopy; one missing panel admits a hard rectangle of white sunlight that falls across the opened pump. Beyond the shade, the canal throws fierce reflected light onto peeling walls. Far away, behind a continuous raised seawall, a few immaculate glass residential towers stand in pale, heat-thick air. Their windows are closed. Keep the working hands and the exposed machinery sharply observed; let the distant towers nearly dissolve. Paint water thinly, sunlight dry and chalky, patched concrete with a palette knife. Restrained earth colors, oxidized green, dull aluminum, almost no pure black. Nothing picturesque about the flooding, nothing heroic in the poses. No lettering, numbers, logos, or other words anywhere.